


Blank Canvases

by winterwaters



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Body Paint, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Future Fic, Plot What Plot, Sexual Tension, Shameless Smut, Teensy Bit of Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 15:03:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3330338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterwaters/pseuds/winterwaters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You mean to tell me that Clarke Griffin was going to get me drunk so she could take advantage of me?”</p><p>---Bellamy and Clarke take part in a Grounder custom that involves body paint. Lots and lots of it. <strong>prompt:</strong> - "every second, every moment, we've gotta make it last"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blank Canvases

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rashaka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rashaka/gifts).



> I know I held onto this prompt forever, so apologies! But I hope it's worth the wait. Also, I really did try to research reasons for body paint, but we all know where this is going... Anyways, I really hope you like it!

“Tell me one more time why we’re doing this?” Bellamy asked.

“Custom dictates that each clan leader is decorated to celebrate the end of winter and the start of a new spring season.”

Clarke’s response was nearly automatic by now, having repeated herself so many times already. She was too distracted by the clay pots lined up neatly against the wall, the bright dyes within already staining the rims. That, and the large pile of pristine white sheets in the middle of the room that was apparently to serve as a bed.

_Their_ bed.

“Decorated with paint,” Bellamy said flatly.

“Yes.” She crouched by the small pots, her fingers trailing almost reverently over the edges as she spoke. “The full meeting of all the leaders is in two days. By then it’ll be faded, but I think that’s the point. Something about representing our tribe but showing we are also able to unite when called upon.”

So many vivid colors, red and green and blue and gold… 

Bellamy’s voice cut in again. “And we’re absolutely sure this is what they meant?”

“Lincoln translated.”

“What _exactly_ did he say?”

Clarke bit back another sigh. “ _‘The purpose of the ritual is to celebrate the return of warmth and color into our lives after the bleakness of winter.’_ ” The words were practically imprinted upon her brain by now, having analyzed them to no end on her own. Now she repeated them. “ _‘It is to signify that we understand the importance of surviving another season in this world.’_ ” 

She stood and glared at Bellamy. “There. Happy?”

He gave a small huff but otherwise didn’t reply. It was the same reason Clarke hadn’t argued very much. They couldn’t exactly question Lincoln’s commitment after everything he’d done for them. For Octavia.

But Bellamy’s silence didn’t last long. “Who else knows about this?” He asked suspiciously.

“Only Lincoln. And the clan leaders, obviously. The others just think we stayed to negotiate further terms and talk strategy.”

“How do we know Lincoln won’t tell my sister?”

“Because if he does,” she bared her teeth, “ I will let it slip that three very eager, very naked girls from the Sea Clan felt the need to help her husband bathe in the ocean on our last visit.”

Bellamy’s mouth quirked in a smile. Even he hadn’t been able to hide his laughter at the sight of the fearsome Grounder warrior standing helplessly in the water, simultaneously trying to push the wandering hands away while not offending their hosts. After several giggles of her own, Clarke had gathered her wits long enough to shoo them off before anyone else arrived.

Her gaze drifted to the colors again. She was already itching to put them to use. Though, she hadn’t ever expected to be painting like _this._

When she looked back up, Bellamy was deep in thought, the ever-permanent crease back on his forehead. The familiar sight gave an affectionate tug at her heart.

“So,” he began carefully, “we’re supposed to paint each other?”

She had to lick her lips several times to work moisture back into her mouth before answering. “Yeah. Basically.”

“What about the clans who only have one chosen leader?”

Clarke had to resist rolling her eyes. He had _so_ many questions. But she’d known that, of course. She knew him too well to think he’d just accept anything at face value.

“Each leader was asked to give the name of someone they trust, usually their second.” She shrugged. “But we’ve already made it clear we’re a team, so they didn’t bother asking us.”

His eyes softened a little at that, and she smiled tentatively. But soon he was looking around their small hut again, picking up every detail. When he raised an expectant eyebrow, Clarke knew she was in trouble. “That still doesn’t explain why they locked the door. Or gave us a _bed._ ” 

Clarke winced and looked away. This was the part she’d been dreading. When she didn’t respond for a full minute, Bellamy took a step closer. And another, and another, until she could practically feel the heat radiating off his body. She kept her gaze on the floor, distractedly wondering why he hadn’t fixed the hole in the heel of his left boot yet.

“Clarke,” Bellamy’s voice was dangerously low. “What are you not telling me?”

With a small sigh, she dropped her face into her hands. “Technically, the painting is only part of the ritual. After that, the…, they usually… uh…” she flung a hand to the pile of sheets without opening her eyes. A fierce blush rose in her neck.

There was utter silence as he processed what she was saying. Then:

“You have _got_ to be kidding me.”

Bellamy sounded so scandalized that Clarke would have laughed if she wasn’t so nervous.

“It’s just another part of the tradition.” Her voice came out too fast and and several octaves too high, but she rushed on desperately. “We can’t offend them. Not after… Anyways, they gave us wine and cider, and I just figured we could drink and do the painting and-”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Bellamy held up his hands, and now a familiar smirk spread across his face. She nearly took a step back. “You mean to tell me that Clarke Griffin was going to get me drunk so she could take advantage of me?”

 _“What!”_ She shrieked and shoved him, wide-eyed. “No! That’s not- I didn’t-” 

His laughter cut through the air, the bright sound easily overtaking any reply she might have given. If she’d been able to speak at all - which, at the moment, she couldn’t. Her blush rose in a deep, hot wave as Bellamy bent double in laughter, his eyes crinkled and hands braced on his knees. Clarke crossed her arms in front of her chest, affronted. 

(Never mind that she loved making him laugh. Never mind that she was biting the inside of her cheek in a fruitless attempt not to smile.)

It took a full two minutes, but he finally managed to pull it together with a few deep breaths, though he was still chuckling. His gaze swept over her heated cheeks, and his smile widened.

“Princess, I think you planned this.” He teased, reaching out to tweak her nose.

She slapped his hand away. “Did not,” she replied petulantly. “What I was _going_ to say was that I thought we could just do the painting and then _go to sleep._ It’s not like they’d know the difference. The sheets will have paint all over them.”

“Uh huh. Sure.” Bellamy was still grinning hugely, and it was sending all sorts of things fluttering inside her. Clarke wanted - needed - to wipe the smile off his face. 

So she marched over to the table, picked up the first bottle she saw, and took a large gulp. And then another. The liquid was sweet, with a hint of tartness - likely one of the Grounders’ special fruit wines. A warm burn settled in her throat.

Without preamble, she stripped off her shirt.

“Clarke!”

She smirked a little to herself at the strangled note in Bellamy’s voice before turning around and planting her hands on her hips. “What? Did you expect to paint _over_ my clothes?”

“Well, no, but-” Bellamy cut off abruptly and she raised an eyebrow, trying not to notice how his eyes traveled over every inch of skin not covered by her dark bra. Clarke took a few more swigs of the wine - liquid courage and all - before striding back to him.

“Do you want to keep talking, or do you want to paint my body?”

His reply was immediate.

“I want to paint your body.” The guttural tone of his voice sent shivers through her frame.

She nodded briskly, about to head for the paints when he stopped her with a hand on her wrist. Clarke looked up in question and he pulled her close, sending the air out of her lungs with a small whoosh.

Carefully, Bellamy unknotted the brown ribbon at her wrist before he planted his hands on her shoulders and turned her around. Then his fingers were weaving through her hair, gathering it up over her shoulders and into a ponytail. Every small tug sent little shocks of pleasure down her spine, and Clarke did everything she could to bite down on the corresponding squeaks that were threatening to spill out.

She thought she’d done a reasonable job of it until he murmured, “Hmm.”

_Damnit._

Before she could speak, he’d maneuvered her over to the clay pots. She swallowed thickly, closing her eyes and waiting.

And waiting.

Bellamy’s breath was warm on the back of her neck, but he just _stood_ there. Clarke could feel his gaze on her, heavy and curious. Heat coiled deep in her belly as her flush deepened. She began to fidget on the spot. He knew exactly what he was doing, the jerk.

“Well?” She finally demanded.

Bellamy laughed softly. “Eager, are we?”

“Shut up. I just… what are you waiting for?”

His fingers brushed directly between her shoulder blades. Clarke suppressed a sigh, though her head tilted back just the same. His murmur was right at her ear.

“What is it you artists call it? Examining your canvas?”

“I hate you.”

He responded with another warm laugh that made her skin tingle. But he still didn’t move, leaving her antsy and nervous, and god help her, wanting. She didn’t speak again. A heaviness had settled over them like a blanket, and she was hesitant to break it when she didn’t even know where it had come from. 

Bellamy’s silence was familiar, though. She could practically feel his eyebrows draw together out of habit, the way they did when he was considering something carefully. Or when he was nearly boring a hole with his gaze, as if whatever he was looking at held all the answers.

In this case, that something was _her._

Finally, he lifted a hand to catch a stray curl that had escaped her hairtie, tucking it behind her ear so gently she wanted to twist her head to press a kiss to his fingers.

“If we’re doing this, we’ll do it right,” he said. “Every second, every moment, we should make it last.”

Clarke’s throat closed up at the unexpected tenderness in his voice. It didn’t sound like he was talking about just painting anymore. And though the thought terrified her, it also filled her with hope. Her eyes drifted shut. She was completely unprepared for this. 

When the first drop of paint landed on her shoulder, she jumped in surprise. The cool dye was a balm to her overheated skin. Then Bellamy’s hand followed, smearing the paint across her back in a long swipe, and she sucked in a harsh breath as her eyes flew open.

“I… uh- there’s a brush.” She stuttered.

His fingers didn’t even pause. “Did Lincoln say we have to use it?”

“I- I don’t remember.”

“In that case…” His hand trailed deliberately down her spine and her traitorous body curved against his touch.

 _Oh god._ She had _not_ thought this through.

Bellamy leaned down, this time reaching around her and directly into her line of sight to dip his fingers into the pot of blue paint. Clarke crossed her arms over her chest to hide her slight tremble. Her nails dug into her skin.

She gasped as his hand slapped wetly onto her waist and remained there, unmoving. She could barely form the words to ask what he was up to. When he pulled away a few moments later, Clarke looked down to see a blue imprint of his hand directly over her hip.

All the moisture left her mouth.

Bellamy repeated the motion on her other side, this time with bright red paint. Clarke pressed her legs together against the rush of wetness that pooled between her thighs. She couldn’t decide if her reaction was from surprise at the possessive mark, or surprise at how much she liked it - liked the feeling of being _his._

His hands trailed along her back again, creating lazy swirls and patterns with the colors. He was standing close enough that she could feel every breath he took. Her skin was on fire everywhere he touched, a neverending current of electricity passing from his fingertips directly into her nerves and making her body ache with longing. A wordless murmur escaped her mouth when he grazed the divots by her spine. He paused for a moment, then did it again. Clarke bit her lip, hard.

(Yeah, she really had not thought this through at all.)

When Bellamy finally twisted her to face him, she took comfort in his parted lips and blown pupils. It made her feel a little less silly to know she wasn’t the only one affected. As he leaned over to swipe more paint, she began to wonder which colors would stand out against his tanned skin. 

Green, definitely green. And the deep purple, yeah. Maybe red-

Clarke squealed and giggled as his finger dipped into her bellybutton.

Bellamy smiled in surprise. “Ticklish?” His eyes glimmered mischievously, and before she could warn him not to, his hands danced over her ribcage.

“Stop that,” she gasped between laughs. “Bell, seriously, _please_ …” she laughed until she couldn’t breathe, trying and failing to push away from his strong grip. His fingers were merciless, tapping all over and leaving bright spots of blue and yellow and red in their wake. 

Eventually his arms slid around to encircle her and she rested gratefully against his chest, breathing in air with heavy gulps. His chin came to rest atop her hair. Clarke buried her nose in the thin material of his shirt, listening to his rapid heartbeat under her ear. The quiet was punctuated by her occasional sigh as she stood in his arms, suddenly very content to just be held.

When she finally lifted her head, Bellamy was looking at her with nothing short of adoration. Warmth flooded her body even as she blushed again.

“My turn,” she said, not caring that her voice dipped extremely low. She thought she caught him gulp, but surprising her, he obediently raised his arms. His small nod urged her on. He wanted her to do it. Wanted proof that she was just as willing of a participant in all this. 

(Really, as if there was any doubt.)

There was something strangely intimate about removing his shirt as he stood completely still for her. Clarke curled her fingers into the material and pulled up slowly, letting her fingers graze his toned sides and taking comfort in how his muscles clenched under the touch. She had to rise to her tiptoes to pull it off entirely. His dark curls dropped over his forehead, eyes unreadable as he stared down at her from under those gorgeous lashes.

It took her several moments to drag her gaze away, and then she couldn’t decide if that was a good idea or not because now she couldn’t stop looking at every other part of him. 

She wasn’t an idiot. She knew Bellamy was well-built, and long seasons on Earth had only added to the long, taut lines of muscle that stretched across his torso. But she never really had the chance to just _look_ at him, and now that she was, she found she didn’t want to stop.

He was incredibly broad in a way that made her want to be enfolded gently in his arms and at the same time crushed against his chest. All of her anatomy lessons suddenly came rushing back in an entirely new manner. Her fingers itched to map the shape of his scapula, the line of his clavicle, the hard planes of his stomach. She wanted to trace how his hips narrowed sharply right before disappearing into his waistband, first with her hands and then with her lips. And the slope of his shoulders… well, that was, quite simply, mouthwatering.

Her eyes flicked back to his and she smiled to herself. Taking her time, she walked around him in a slow circle, unabashedly staring at him just as he’d done to her earlier. He stood still as a statue, which was a strange experience in itself. Clarke wasn’t used to seeing him so motionless - even when he was standing still, he was always fidgeting in some small way. But not this time.

She also didn’t miss the tension in his posture, the clench of his fists. He was either bracing himself or exercising restraint. For what, she wasn’t sure.

“Clarke.” It came out as a strained breath and a plea. She really kind of liked it. _Fair’s fair._

“Patience. I’m examining my canvas, remember?” Clarke grinned as he ducked his head with a ragged sigh.

Then her eyes caught the patchwork of scars on his lower back, directly above a dimple in his spine, and her smile quickly faded. The lines weren’t fresh, and hadn’t been for a long time now, but the ruined skin still shocked her system as a reminder of her own callous decision-making.

It was the only physical remnant of his time in that sick mountain, but it was enough to make the shame rise hot and ugly in her throat as the memories flooded back.

The hurt in his eyes when she sent him off; his crumpled, broken form lying in a cage; the shaking of his body in nightmares that wouldn’t end. 

To this day, it still terrified her that she had been so rash as to push him away when she needed him the most. And nearly gotten him killed in the process. Sometimes she still woke up raw with fear, convinced he was back in that cage, and not until she’d crept across camp to find him asleep in his tent or by his post at the gate was she able to relax again, and remind herself that past was past.

Hot tears pricked suddenly at her eyes and she hurried to wipe them away. 

But Bellamy, always so attuned to her every thought, caught the shift in her mood immediately. He twisted, alarm coloring his features when he saw her face. His eyes followed her gaze only for a second before his head snapped up.

“Clarke-”

She shook her head mutely, holding up a hand. His mouth closed, setting in a firm line even as his eyebrows drew together in concern. Lightly, slowly, his thumb came up to graze her cheek, swiping away another tear that had slipped out unknowingly.

Through her blurry vision, Clarke managed to focus on the smudge of paint coloring his finger. Impulsively, she swiped the blue from his handprint at her hip and pressed it directly overtop the scars on his skin. The muscles twitched beneath her fingers as he inhaled sharply.

So she did it again, harder, this time with the red. Bellamy shuddered, and his eyes shut tight.

Clarke looked down at her paint-splattered front. Without a second thought, she moved foward and wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her chest flush against his back and splaying her hands on his stomach. Her forehead rested between his shoulder blades, feeling his torso expand and contract as he took a long breath.

Then Bellamy’s hands covered her own, bringing them to his mouth for a sweet, wet kiss to her knuckles. Clarke brushed her lips over the skin of his back in response, feeling his breath rush over her fingers in a harsh sigh.

She lost track of how long they stood there. It occurred to her that she was likely holding him ridiculously tight, but he didn’t seem to mind. Her lungs heaved without any rhythm, causing her to tremble for a few long moments. Finally she forced herself to follow the pattern of his deep breaths until her chest moved with his. Until the sadness was firmly pushed back into its box.

When her grip loosened, she had only a moment to register that the paint had successfully transferred between their bodies before Bellamy spun in her hold. He was opening his mouth to speak when she laid a gentle finger against his lips.

“I’m not done,” she said softly.

She offered a shaky but genuine smile, and he kissed her finger in reply, his dark eyes never leaving hers.

Swallowing thickly, Clarke reached for the green paint. Her fingers traced swirls along his broad shoulders and down his biceps, following the ropes of chorded muscle and lingering to watch his reactions. His breath faltered often, but even when his eyes drooped to half-mast they remained on her, like he was trying to commit everything to memory. 

She had intended for the red next when her gaze caught the orange pot. It was a deep, burnt shade, like that of a sunset. Somehow, that felt right. She trailed a single line down his sternum and along the deep vee of his hipbones, just grazing his waistband before Bellamy gripped her wrists with a small gasp.

Though affected, he was still looking at her as if she might break any moment.

So she flicked paint onto his face, wanting to see his smile. He made a mildly offended sound in the back of his throat before his mouth lifted at the corners. Yanking her closer, he nuzzled his face into her neck. Both the paint and his stubble tickled her skin, drawing a squeaky laugh out of her.

Bellamy released a small sigh and framed her face between his hands. “I miss that,” he said quietly.

“What?”

“You. Laughing.” 

Underneath the sadness, there was a quiet understanding. Acceptance, that this was their life. But everything about this strange day made Clarke want to change that. She put her hand over his. “Tell you what, maybe you crack a smile now and then and I’ll try to laugh more. Deal?”

Almost instantly, his face split into a sweet, crooked smile. “Deal, princess.”

Specks of paint mingled with the freckles scattered across his cheeks. Clarke traced the angle of his jaw, the small divot in his chin, the arch of his cheekbones. She left a dot of paint on his nose, giggling when he scrunched his face.

Then she looped her arms around his back, stepping closer until her body was flush against his. Bellamy dipped his head. Their mouths were inches apart when he whispered, “You smell like raspberries.”

A little dazed, she had to think for a moment. “The wine,” she remembered.

Even his smirk, infuriating as it was, made her deliriously happy. “The wine you were going to get me drunk on before taking advantage of me?”

“You’re impossible.”

“But you love me anyways,” he teased.

Clarke looked into his eyes and saw a slight flare of panic as he registered what he’d said. So she leaned in and pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth. 

“Yeah,” she sighed exaggeratedly, “I guess I do.” 

Bellamy blinked slowly, as if her words moved through water and hadn’t quite reached his brain just yet. Clarke smiled and raised her eyebrows pointedly until his face opened in giddy realization. 

When he finally kissed her, it was like coming home.

She wasn’t surprised at how well they fit together; she’d thought about it too often to deny it. But she _was_ surprised at the surge of emotions that it unleashed, how damn _happy_ she felt to be in his arms, to hold him just as tightly and kiss him back with everything she had.

Because he was everything to her.

Bellamy pulled back in concern when he tasted the saltiness on her lips. With a noise of protest, Clarke put a hand to his neck and drew him back. “It’s okay. Only happy tears,” she whispered, and felt his mouth curve into a relieved smile.

He pressed soft kisses to her eyelids, her forehead, her cheeks, even her nose before finally trailing back to her lips and winding his arms around her. Clarke sank into the embrace, surrounded by him and only him.

Slowly, he walked her backwards until her feet touched the sheets. Then she was lowering down, an arm thrown out behind her for support until she grasped the rough material. Bellamy reached into her hair, tugging at the ribbon until her curls spilled over her shoulders. 

When he would have set the ribbon aside, Clarke took it from his hands and tied it around his wrist. It was an impulsive, possibly silly action - but then today seemed to be a day for silly, impulsive actions. Bellamy stared down at the muddy brown string for a long moment. A sweet, lopsided smile pulled at his face as he leaned down to kiss her again.

The way he settled over her was somehow familiar, even though they’d never done this before. He knew to lean on his elbows just enough that she felt his warm, solid body pressed along the length of hers without feeling crushed by his weight. It was only now that Clarke suddenly felt small compared to him - but not in a bad way. In that perfect way when something just fit. 

His mouth wandered lower, finding the soft skin at the tops of her breasts. Her eyes drifted shut as he placed lazy kisses along the edge of her flimsy bra before licking a path down her sternum.

Soon, though, all the places their skin touched wasn’t enough for her. Her hips rocked upwards, brushing against his hard length, and his answering moan shot a bolt of pleasure straight down to her center.

Bellamy finally reached between them to undo the button on her trousers, his eyes lifting to hers as his fingers slipped inside. He dragged a single digit over her damp underwear and her head tipped back with a small moan. Bellamy’s lips latched to her neck, sucking hard on her pulse point as his hand circled her slick heat. Clarke whimpered, holding tightly to his hair even as her hips canted up in silent plea.

When he sank a long finger into her warmth, she bit down on his shoulder. _”Bellamy.”_

Something like a sigh escaped him before his mouth began to work busily at her skin. Her legs fell open, trying to urge him farther in despite still being clothed. He added a second finger, pumping in and out as her hips frantically tilted to meet his movements. When Clarke felt a familiar tightening begin low in her body, she tugged Bellamy’s head up. 

“Off,” she ordered shakily, fumbling with his jeans. 

Confusion warred with arousal on his face. “But you-”

“Later,” she snapped. “I need _you._ All of you. Now.”

“Bossy,” he murmured against her mouth, but his hand joined hers anyways and together they dragged off his clothing.

“As if you’re surprised.” The last word became a breathy sigh when his fingers pulled out of her with an embarrassingly wet sound. Bellamy watched her from under hooded eyes as those same fingers returned to his mouth, sucking her juices clean. Her clit throbbed helplessly at the sight, and for a second, she considered letting his mouth continue where his fingers had left off. 

But then he was tugging off her pants and underwear and all she could think about was letting him fill her up completely. She hastened to get rid of her bra, pulling at his arms until he lay in the cradle of her thighs once more. The head of his cock nudged her folds and Clarke muffled her moan into his neck. Slowly, deliberately, Bellamy sank inside of her, pushing her knees up and back until he was buried to the hilt. Clarke held him close as her body stretched and adjusted to his length, already creating delicious friction everywhere.

“Clarke, please, open your eyes.”

Bellamy was hovering above her, his arms straining as he struggled not to move right away. She cradled his cheek and leaned up for a kiss.

“I’m okay. Go.” She crossed her ankles, her heels digging into his back. His head dropped to hers with a soft groan as he began to move.

They fell into an easy rhythm, the slap of flesh punctuated by their ragged breaths. Clarke locked her limbs around him, trying to memorize everything - the way her name left his lips like a prayer, how his hands tangled into her hair and dug into her hip, the way their bare chests brushed together with each thrust. 

When it all became too much, she threaded her fingers into his hair and brought his mouth to hers for a searing kiss. His hips drove harder, and when she felt his hand press against her clit her body bucked uncontrollably. She came with a wail as her limbs flooded with pleasure, her walls clenching and fluttering around his cock.

Bellamy shook in her arms, his face pressed into the crook of her neck as his control slipped. Clarke swiped paint from her skin and grabbed his wrist, tracing a line of green and yellow along the path of the ribbon. Her lips dragged a path from his shoulder up to his ear.

“Come for me,” she whispered.

He shuddered out his release with a final twist of his hips, his breathing uneven and hoarse against her skin. Clarke wrapped her arms around him, content to keep him there as long as possible. Her fingers created absent patterns in the still-wet paint on his back, the colors blending together and creating new shades all their own. _What a canvas,_ she thought dizzily, then giggled at herself. 

He raised up on his arms to look at her in question, making her protest softly at the loss of his warmth. Lifting up to kiss him, she murmured, "I think you're my favorite kind of canvas." 

Bellamy smiled and nuzzled her cheek, making her giggle again.

“I’m in love with you,” he said. “I love you.”

Clarke looked up into the smiling eyes of the boy she loved, and laughed happily.

~~~~~~~~

Across the village, Lincoln glanced at his wife where she lay next to him on their mat. “You know if they ever uncover this deception, my life is in danger.”

Octavia snorted, waving a hand in dismissal. “Our lives are always in danger.” Seeing his worried face, she lifted herself up on an elbow. “You didn’t do anything but explain the clan customs.”

“Customs don’t state they have to be locked in a hut together overnight.”

“Details.” She lifted a shoulder in a careless shrug. “They had to paint, right? God knows they needed the privacy. Whatever happens after that is up to them.”

“But-”

Octavia cut him off with a kiss. “Don’t worry,” she grinned. “I’ll protect you at all costs.”

It turned out that wouldn’t be necessary. When Lincoln saw the two leaders the next day, the bright paint that peeked out from their clothes was merely an afterthought. All he saw was how Bellamy’s eyes smiled down at the girl next to him, the easy way Clarke leaned into his hold as he spoke, and the unwavering affection that seemed to accompany their every touch.

“Told you so.”

He turned to see Octavia’s smug grin and shook his head, pulling her close. “You scare me sometimes, you know that?”

She winked.


End file.
